


follow you until the end

by sharkle



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, One Shot Collection, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkle/pseuds/sharkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She presses closer to Karma, trying to prove god knows what to god knows who, refusing to believe that anything about this feeling could ever be anything other than meant to be." </p><p>A series of (mostly) unrelated oneshots and drabbles based on one-word prompts. </p><p>10. Bowl: Karma's competitive streak rears its head.</p><p>(ETA: Abandoned. Sorry!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. slate

Amy’s breath catches when Karma leans in to kiss her again, her hand shaking a little as she reaches up to cup Amy’s cheek.

“Karma,” she mumbles against her lips, and Karma pulls away like she’s been burned.

“I’m sorry,” she says without pausing to draw breath, her voice trembling, too, “I’m just really nervous about messing this up. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m fucking terrified that I’ll end up hurting you again somehow and that’s the last thing I would ever wanna do. This is kinda like a clean slate for us and I never thought we’d get a second chance and I’m, I’m so worried I’ll end up losing –”

“ _Karma_.” She closes her mouth, looking almost pained. Amy grasps her hand. “You’re rambling.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Shaking her head, Amy leans in, and they don’t talk much for a while after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first foray into the Faking It fandom and the first time i've actually finished or posted a fic anywhere other than tumblr in ages and i gotta admit, i'm a little nervous. this was originally meant to be a kind of writing exercise, so please don't hesitate to give me some feedback! here's hoping i can make it through all 50 prompts.
> 
> title credit to "jenny" by studio killers.


	2. fax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter could, theoretically, take place before they get together for real. feel free to take it any way you want.

Amy’s phone has been buzzing insistently against her leg for at _least_ fifteen minutes straight – a new record, even for Karma. It’s still going off when she finally approaches Mrs. Wilson’s desk and asks to go to the bathroom, because if Karma is trying this hard to contact her, Amy wouldn’t put it past her to track down her room number and send a fax.

She has her phone out and pressed to her ear almost before she hits the hallway. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” She’s going for annoyed, but it just comes out sounding fondly exasperated.

But then Karma stifles a sob on the other end of the line, and Amy's heart drops into her stomach. “Can you drive me home?” she says, her voice choked with tears.

Amy doesn’t even think. “Yeah,” she says, fighting down a rising panic. “Where are you?”

Another sniffle. “In the front office.”

“I’ll be right there,” she says, but doesn’t hang up. She’s never been more grateful that Mrs. Wilson is notorious for being sympathetic toward alleged “family emergencies” – and it’s not like it's a lie this time, anyway.


	3. haystack

As much as part of Karma is aching to pull Amy behind a stack of hay and prove to her that there’s _definitely_ a reason everyone at the fair is staring at her, there’s another part of her that’s still – well, she wouldn’t exactly call herself _reserved_ about the physical aspect of their relationship, but… PDA and other “This Is _My_ Girlfriend And I Wanna Show Her Off” moments aside, Karma _loves_ having that side of Amy all to herself. She loves being the _only person_ who knows what Amy looks like when her lips are swollen and her clothes are rumpled from kissing, or when she’s just gotten out of the shower and changed into sweats, or when she’s the first person Karma sees when she wakes up on Sunday morning.

Sometimes she still has trouble wrapping her head around the fact that Amy is _all hers_ , so sue her if she wants to play her cards close to her chest.

Then again, this train of thought is making her want to reconsider…

“Karma, you’re staring.”

She grins through her blush. “What can I say? I’m enjoying the view.”


	4. dove

There’s a _split second,_ literally a space of time so short it barely registers in Karma’s mind, in between the moment the words form in her brain and the moment they leave her mouth, where she thinks that if she couldn’t have released a flock of doves for this, she should’ve at least taken Amy out for a nice dinner or worn a dress or _something._

Instead, she looks at Amy, still lying in bed with last night’s pajamas on at 4 in the afternoon, halfway through her eleventh consecutive episode of How It’s Made, and she hears herself say, “I want to marry you.”

Amy gives her this startled look, like maybe her very first thought after hearing that is that she’s surprised Karma didn’t snap up the opportunity to make an event out of this, the most important milestone in their relationship to date, a moment they’re supposed to tell stories about twenty years from now at parties where everyone is drinking wine and eating finger foods as appetizers.

But that’s just it – this is the story Karma wants to be able to tell, years and years from now. She wants to be able to say she saw her best friend, the person she knows better than she knows herself, in a stained and ragged T-shirt, her hair a tangled mess after spending the entire day lazing around, and thought, _I want to come home to this_ every day _for the rest of my life. For forever._

That is, until Amy says, with a hint of a grin and a raised eyebrow, “Was that supposed to be a proposal?”, ruining the moment in typical Amy fashion, and Karma shoves her shoulder and tells her to shut up. And then Amy’s smile softens and she says, “Okay,” really quietly, and Karma takes Amy’s face in her hands and kisses her and decides that the doves would’ve just made a huge mess, anyway.


	5. diary

For Christmas during their freshman year of college, Amy hands Karma a small stack of books tied up with a bright red bow. There are pages in each one with their corners folded over; it’s only when Karma opens one up and sees that it’s filled with Amy’s handwriting that she realizes they’re _journals._

Amy tells her as much. “Going all the way back to sophomore year,” she adds, and Karma feels an unpleasant, though familiar, jolt in the pit of her stomach. “I, um, I marked all the sections I thought you should read.”

Karma just stares at her, stunned into silence.

This last semester has been rough on them: Although they’re both living in the same city (thank god), they’re still on different campuses, and the struggle of making time for each other and coordinating schedules while trying to balance all the other excitement of entering college life has taken its toll on their relationship, to the point where they once went _days_ , almost a _week_ , without speaking, in their worst fight since last fall. Granted, the thought of the awesome make-up sex they had afterward _still_ makes Karma’s cheeks feel warm, but – the past few months have been a challenge, to say the least.

And after all that, for Amy to just bare her soul to her like this…

All Amy does, though, is squeeze her knee and give her a tentatively encouraging smile. “Come find me when you’re done.”

And just like that, Karma’s left alone in Amy’s old bedroom.

Taking a breath to steel her nerves – because she’s terrified of what she’ll find if she reads what’s written here, of how things might change, but she’s even more terrified of what will happen if she _doesn’t_ – Karma flips to the first dog-eared page.

\--

Not too much later, Amy looks up from her spot on the couch as Karma makes her way downstairs. “There’s _no way_ you got through all that already.”

Karma shakes her head, not breaking stride. “I skimmed.”

She wraps her arms around Amy’s neck and buries her face in her shoulder, her throat tight, an old weight lifted from her chest and a new one, a different one, sitting in its place.

“Thank you for that,” she mutters, even though it _never_ feels like the words are enough, and Amy’s grip on her tightens. “I love you so much.”


	6. chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a list of things i wish they hadn't changed after the pilot and Ivy's existence (aka Liam and Shane's feminist friend) is at the very top.

Absolutely no one in or around the pool is surprised when it’s Shane who proposes a game of chicken to liven up the party, even though it’s so disgustingly humid that even after spending the better part of an hour in the water, Amy’s still wishing she could just sleep through the heat of the afternoon (but then again, no one would be surprised by that, either). Ivy volunteers to be Shane’s partner; he calls out for an opponent and Karma turns to her, eyes bright.

“Get on my shoulders.”

Apparently, she’s just as predictable as the rest of them.

Amy knows better than to bother protesting when Karma has that look on her face. Besides, 100-degree temperatures and the risk of serious sunburn aside, getting to watch Karma in a soaking wet bikini all day has left her in an agreeable mood.

There’s just one issue: “I’m taller, I should be on bottom.”

“Sorry, Amy, could you repeat that?” Shane says, grinning. He yelps as Ivy pinches his side, _hard_.

“Look, I love you, but I’d snap you in half,” Karma says. “Come on, it’ll be fine.”

Just because Amy can’t hold her up against the wall with her bare arms while they make out doesn’t mean she’s _completely_ useless. But she learned long ago that there’s only one alternative to arguing with Karma, and that’s to take action without reaching an agreement. She holds her breath and ducks underwater, surfacing a moment later between Karma’s legs, gasping for air. Karma shrieks a little and clutches at her for balance, but Amy is flat-footed and steady, for the time being.

“My hair’s in my face, I can’t see shit,” she says. Somewhat breathlessly, Karma laughs, doing her best to brush it away from her eyes. “Thanks.”

Shane is holding Ivy up now, too, and he wastes no time in yelling, “Go!” and charging at them at full speed – well, full speed for standing chest-deep in the water, at least, but still – Amy fastens her arms more securely around Karma’s thighs and tries very, _very_ hard to focus on the task at hand and _not_ on any of the other occasions she’s had Karma’s legs thrown over her shoulders.


	7. guillotine

Amy is finally, _blissfully_ free from the pressures of being a high school student when she realizes that she should’ve appreciated every single scrap of Hester’s “Kumbaya” bullshit while she still had the chance. Too little, too late, she guesses.

She and Karma are spending a long weekend in Galveston on a graduation trip, of sorts. Initially, it was part of Shane’s plan to invite everyone in their class to a party on the beach, even if only half of them were going to show up; from there, the two of them decided to make a little vacation out of it. If they’re gonna drive all the way out here anyway, they might as well make it worth their while beyond Shane’s party, right?

So it’s the third day in a row they’re camped out on the beach, reclining on towels in the sand, the brown water of the Gulf of Mexico stretching out to the horizon. It’s not the same as the " _real"_ ocean, Amy knows, but the sun is glinting off the waves just before they break across the shore, and the breeze is still refreshing this early in June, so she’s certainly not complaining. She bites into one of the apple slices from the cooler they brought with them, and Karma’s inspired to lean over and steal a kiss.

The first thing Amy notices, when she pulls away, is that Karma’s lips taste sweet, like salt and sunscreen, sunlight and summer.

The second thing she notices is the middle-aged man who stops in his tracks at the sight of them and stares. He only pauses long enough to shoot them a slightly accusatory, vaguely horrified glare before tugging roughly on his young daughter’s hand and quickening his pace.

Amy’s stomach turns over.

It must show on her face, because Karma frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“That guy…” She nods at his retreating back, her mouth suddenly feeling like it’s full of sand. Karma turns to follow her gaze. “He gave us this, like… really disgusted look, when we kissed.”

Karma’s mouth becomes a thin line. “Asshole,” she mutters, in her low, Pissed As Hell voice, and wraps a hand around the back of Amy’s neck to kiss her again, more forcefully this time.

And Amy’s thinking – “activist” has never been a word she’s used to describe herself, mainly because she’s never been very _active_ in anything (except for maybe her sex life) – but really, how can she not be? How can she act like she doesn’t care, like it’s none of her business when it so completely _is_? She’s not sure that, until this moment, she’s ever _really_ considered the fact that when people talk about “gay rights” like this kind of myth, this abstract concept, they’re talking about _her_ rights – her and Karma’s basic fucking human rights. When they get married (and not _if_ ), it won’t be the beautiful backyard wedding Amy’s mother has always dreamed of – it’ll have to be in an entirely different _state_ , because of the simple issue that one of them isn’t a dude. The injustice of it all makes her want to scream.

There are people out there – there are people _on this very beach_ – who, if they all lived in another time period, would’ve seen them strung up or led to the guillotine for the crime of loving each other; people who would call their relationship unnatural, or a sin, or _wrong_ , and Amy can’t even wrap her head around that, because that first kiss she and Karma shared in the gym, what feels like a million years ago, and every innumerable kiss they’ve shared since, made Amy feel _right_ for maybe the first time in her entire life, like everything _finally_ made sense – like having a foreign text translated into English and seeing what was really there all along.

She presses closer to Karma, trying to prove _god knows what_ to _god knows who_ , refusing to believe that anything about this feeling could ever be anything other than meant to be.


	8. tortoise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during senior year.

When Karma lets herself into the Raudenfeld-Cooper household and walks into the kitchen, it’s to find Amy intently focused on pouring herself a bowl of cereal, the uncharacteristic tension in her posture giving away her awareness of Karma’s presence. Wordlessly, hoping this one gesture will be a step toward making things right, Karma wraps her arms around Amy’s waist from behind; sighing, Amy puts her hand on one of Karma’s and leans into her.

“I’m sorry I ruined all your big plans for us.” Amy’s voice is small.

Karma shakes her head, resting her chin on Amy’s shoulder. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you.”

She can feel Amy sag slightly in relief. “You have a right to be upset,” she says anyway, as though determined to take _some_ responsibility for the way Karma acted, the things she said in the heat of the argument as she was being swallowed up by surprise and confusion and something that felt like betrayal.

“Well, I still shouldn’t have blown up like I did. I mean… it’s not fair of me to ask you to apply to a college you don’t even wanna _go_ to – it’s a waste of money, for one thing. But I would never want you to give up your dreams and be miserable for four years just because I’m a selfish jerk.”

Amy turns in her hold. “You’re not a jerk,” she says, and her expression becomes a little less guarded and a little more anxious. “So you don’t hate me?”

“ _Amy_ ,” Karma says, instead of outright telling her _don’t be stupid_ , but it gets the same message across. She takes Amy’s hands. “I don’t care if you decide you wanna go to college on the other side of the world – I mean, I _care,_ but I’m saying I’d find a way to deal with it. I love you. I’m still gonna love you when you can only eat soft foods and it takes you longer than a giant tortoise to go five feet” – Amy cracks a smile at that, and Karma can’t suppress one of her own – “and I’ll love you even if you teach yourself a foreign language and go to school in Athens, or… Istanbul, or Tokyo, or _wherever_.”

Amy presses her lips together the way she does when she’s trying not to give Karma the satisfaction of smiling _too_ wide, pretending to consider her words. “What if I go to college in The Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska?”

“I don’t know…” Karma says. “ _That_ might be a deal-breaker.” Amy laughs softly, and Karma squeezes her fingers. “We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

In lieu of a reply, Amy just kisses her, and Karma figures that’s good enough for her.


	9. orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait on this one - had some problems with my hand/wrist that limited my writing/typing abilities, and then that whole "life" thing, you know how it is. also, this chapter kind of... really got away from me. word count: ~3300. (sorry not sorry.)
> 
> set sometime soon after college.

For almost two years, Amy gets flowers from Karma about once a week.

Not that they have the extra money to blow or anything – because Amy’s looked online and _shit_ , nice flower arrangements are _expensive_ – but Karma works at a cute little florist’s shop owned by an equally cute little old lady who asks everyone to call her Babs instead of Barbara or Mrs. Collard and lets her employees get flowers for heavily discounted prices – or for free, if her daughter’s visited her lately (which is probably at least part of the reason why she ends up closing the shop and selling the property to someone who turns it into _another fucking coffee shop_ , as if they need any more of those in town).

So, for about 86 weeks – give or take a few – Karma always comes home smelling sweet and aromatic with a small bouquet clutched tight to her chest, and she always puts it in their one good vase because she knows Amy’s too lazy to do it herself. Sometimes Amy plucks one of the old, browning buds from the bunch before Karma throws them out and presses it between the pages of her journal; this is usually on days where the flowers, though she’s come to expect them, are the first thing to make her smile all day.

(Well – _second_ , if she counts Karma.

 _Well –_ most days, anyway.)

There’s one other side effect of this gig: Since the shop’s specialty is arrangements centered around flower meanings, Karma becomes extremely well-versed in this sort of secret code, almost like a language all its own, and she takes full advantage of every opportunity to use their latest centerpiece to send Amy a message. Early on, Amy learns to ask just what, exactly, Karma’s brought home so she can Skwerkel its meaning while Karma changes in the bedroom and be ready to properly thank her with a kiss when she comes back out.

It’s amazing, how Karma seems to know what to say without saying anything at all: Amy gets blooming, bright yellow black-eyed Susans – for _encouragement_ – when she seriously considers setting her laptop on fire so she never has to look at her senior film project ever again; purple lilacs, intricate and delicate – _first love_ – on the anniversary of the day they met almost _two decades ago_ , and she realizes they’ve never known how to live without each other; there are ruffled, dignified peonies – _healing_ – waiting for her when she staggers unsteadily into the kitchen after being in bed with the flu for three days; and on more than one occasion, Karma gets her yellow tulips – _hopelessly in love_ – just because, just as a reminder, on weekends where they have absolutely nothing planned except to spend it together.

And even though she can’t even get near Karma in the spring without sneezing up a storm because there’s always pollen all over her, Amy thinks… being so content with that part of her life is kind of surreal, but it also feels nice, y’know? Just really nice. Peaceful.

Then, of course, the shop closes and they lose their flower provider and it’s the end of an era and all that, which is a huge bummer, even more so because Karma’s out of a job for a couple weeks and that whole “broke college graduates” thing is hanging over their heads. Amy spends most of that time pulling double shifts at work to make sure they can still afford to eat, so she misses it when Karma gets a call from the new owners of the property that once housed the flower shop and is offered a spot at the coffee place opening there next week, because _they spoke to Mrs. Collard and she insisted Karma would be a great fit for them, and they’re more than willing to give her a shot since they’re the ones who pushed her into unemployment in the first place._

During a down moment at work, Amy checks her phone to see a text from Karma that reads “I GOT A JOB!!!!” and excuses herself to the bathroom so she can call right away and get the whole story screamed into her ear all in one exhilarated breath. On her way home, Amy picks up some cheap red wine and some not-so-cheap red ginger flowers and they celebrate with pink cheeks and the red of Karma’s hair against the sheets.

\--

A few weeks after the coffee shop opens, they post flyers around town for an open mic night – not a surprise, considering its whole hipster vibe. Right off the bat, Karma’s all in, committed to performing, seizing the opportunity to put herself out there, _carpe diem_ and all that jazz, but after only a couple days her enthusiasm wavers as she starts to doubt herself.

Amy thinks that’s stupid, but even though Karma’s better about singing for a crowd than she used to be, Amy knows not to push her on this, so she doesn’t say so; she only offers the full extent of her support when Karma regains her determination, and only says, “Well, there’s always next time” when she backs out again.

Finally, Karma hits a breaking point: Her fingers slip on a simple chord while she’s strumming her guitar in their living room. There’s a sudden, harsh dissonance in the notes, and she heaves a lengthy sigh and declares, “I’m not doing it. Everyone’ll just laugh at me.”

And Amy embraces her and tries her best to convince her otherwise, tells her the only reason anyone should make fun of her is for the weird satisfaction she takes in constantly wearing PJ pants from like, five years ago ( _seriously_ , they’re falling apart at the seams), but Karma’s made up her mind, and that means that’s the end of that.

(For now, at least.)

\--

A month later, the café holds another open mic. This time, Amy only finds out about it when she stops by to bring Karma lunch and sees brightly colored flyers posted in the windows – and on the walls, and right next to the register, and pretty much everywhere else inside. She wonders whether she should bring it up, try to poke the sleeping bear, but Karma is noticeably muted and withdrawn, so Amy bites her tongue and marks the date of the show on her phone so she can make plans for dinner that night. Maybe a movie, too.

\--

During the next show, Karma serves coffee and sandwiches while a bunch of twenty-somethings with aspirations greater than their musical talent perform slightly above-average acoustic covers of Top 40 hits. Amy claims a table for herself and pretends to be more interested in watching the acts than she is in watching Karma, the tight edges of her mouth and the consistent downward cast of her eyes. After all is said and done, Amy stays to help her clean up, only breaking the silence to ask where she needs to put the dirty dishes she’s holding or if there’s another wet rag she can use to wipe down the counter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Karma pulling one of the flyers from the wall, just standing and staring at it instead of throwing it away, and she straightens up. This moment will be a Turning Point, she’s known Karma long enough to recognize one – like dangling one half of a heart necklace over a toilet bowl, or staying up all night with her phone in her hand, feeling like puking as she waits, _begs_ for Karma to call her back. She can sense the change almost before it actually happens.

“I’m gonna do the next open mic.”

Amy resists the urge to say, _Finally_.

“Good,” she says firmly, trying to match Karma’s conviction, maybe even outdo it. “You should. You’re a million times better than anyone who was up there tonight, and I’m _not_ just saying that.”

Karma rolls her eyes. “At this point, you’ve basically been brainwashed to be ‘just saying that.’ You’re like, inherently biased.”

“So? That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She shrugs, but Amy can tell she’s pleased all the same.

“So you’re really gonna do it? You’re really committed this time? No backing out?”

Karma takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Yeah.”

Amy holds her gaze. “You know I'm gonna hold you to that.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Okay then.” They share smiles – Amy’s going for reassuring, Karma’s a little apprehensive. “Good.”

Karma crumples the flyer in her hand and tosses it in the direction of the trash can; it hits the floor a few inches away.

\--

The next day, Amy decides she needs to make sure this is locked in, needs some kind of safety net. Dealing with Karma's indecision for months on end has drained her patience, and she’s not letting her bail on this again, for both of their sakes.

Instead of settling for making a trip to the grocery store down the street, she drives like half an hour out of her way to what is now the only legit flower shop within a 30-mile radius of their apartment, picks up dinner while she’s at it, and then gets lost trying to find her way home. The food’s almost cold by the time she gets it through the door, but Karma’s smile at the sight of the hydrangeas blooming like bruises on their kitchen table makes the hole Amy’s gas money is burning in her pocket feel _so_ incredibly worth the trouble.

\--

By the time the day of the open mic rolls around, Amy has heard Karma’s song so many times she’s pretty sure she knows it well enough to perform it herself. Not that she doesn’t _love_ hearing Karma play, because she does, but it does give her an excuse to duck out of the apartment and run one final, completely necessary errand before tonight.

She pokes her head into the bathroom, where Karma’s trying to figure out what to do with her hair. “Hey, I’ve gotta run and pick something up real quick. It’ll take me like an hour, ish? I’ll meet you at the café.”

Karma’s eyes flicker in a kind of panic from the keys in her hand to the clock in the bedroom and finally land on Amy’s face.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she says, the beginnings of hysteria edging in on her tone.

“ _No_ , because this special something is for _you_ , but I’m not gonna give away the surprise.” Amy steps closer to her, taking both her hands. “I _promise_ , I’ll be back in time for the show. And if I’m not, you have my permission to give me the silent treatment for however long you see fit.” She pecks Karma on the lips. “Don’t freak out too much, okay? You’re gonna be awesome.”

She can’t count on one hand the number of times she’s said something to that effect over just the last couple days, let alone the last couple weeks, so she’s not surprised to see that it does practically nothing to ease the tension in Karma’s shoulders.

“I’ll try,” she sighs anyway, as Amy starts to head for the front door. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

\--

Somehow – and Amy probably should’ve expected as much – her little errand ends up taking well over an hour. She’s smart enough to pull up the directions to the flower shop on Skwerkel Maps, which shaves a few minutes off the trip, and the clerk has her special order waiting and ready to go, so she has enough extra time that she comes up with the bright idea of stopping to pick up some really cheesy card that’ll make Karma laugh; but then she spends so long sitting in the parking lot wondering what to write that after a while she glances at the clock, thinks _SHIT_ in all caps, and catches herself pushing the speed limit to make sure she doesn’t miss the open mic completely, because then she’d _really_ be screwed.

It’s no wonder she’s a little winded when she pushes open the door to the café, her mind still going a million miles an hour. The relief that sweeps over her when she locks eyes with Karma, standing off to one side of the small platform that functions as a stage, clutching her guitar, is only reflected right back at her.

Sending Amy a slightly strained smile, Karma looks a little less like she’s about to throw up now, seems to stand a little taller, breathe a little easier – which is the greatest irony of the day, because Amy is so overwhelmed by how breathtakingly beautiful she looks, all lit up with excitement and anticipation despite her nerves, that she almost forgets to smile back. Luckily she manages to recover without embarrassing herself _too_ much, and she protects her bouquet from Karma’s always-curious gaze by hiding it behind her back as she takes a seat at an empty table.

The guy who’s currently singing needs a haircut and a shave; the time it takes for him to finish the second half of his song (which is just the chorus repeated three or four times) flies by so fast, Amy barely registers it. All she knows is that there’s a smattering of polite applause from the packed coffee shop as he exits the makeshift stage and Karma steps up to take his place. Amy woops a little, clapping louder than everyone else combined, and is rewarded with another grateful smile.

“Um,” Karma says, and Amy thinks, _Great start_. “I’m not really good with crowds, but – this is a song I wrote. So, yeah! Thanks.”

And Amy watches her take a deep breath, check the placement of her fingers on the frets of her guitar, and play the opening chords.

Once again, Amy’s torn between watching her and watching the crowd – partly because she knows Karma will call her useless if she asks what everyone thought and Amy replies with something corny like “I don’t know, I was too busy looking at you,” even though Amy thinks that’s a totally legitimate excuse for being distracted. In the end, she doesn’t feel like there’s much of a choice: she observes the reactions of all the other people in the shop just long enough to see them perk up at the sound of Karma’s voice, and then she’s lost, too, her eyes dragged back by a magnetic, gravitational pull that she should probably learn to accept as inevitable.

This song is so different from something Karma might’ve written five years ago. It’s more mature somehow, more nuanced, more… _substantial._ Upbeat isn’t the word she’d use, but it calms Amy down. And she’s heard it a thousand times in the last two weeks, to the point where she finds herself mouthing some of the words under her breath, but Karma’s staring right at her the whole time, pinning her to the spot, and Amy realizes that it’s her favorite, just because of this moment, this feeling. At this point she’s not sure if she’s seeing or hearing Karma more than she’s absorbing her, basking in her, because the way Karma’s looking at her makes her feel like she’s sitting directly in front of the sun, warm inside and out.

What’s maybe the best part is Karma’s smile turning totally open and genuine about halfway through as she becomes more comfortable and confident, starts having _fun_ with it, which is pretty much everything Amy could’ve hoped for her and more. She knows Karma’s singing about _them_ and is struck dumb by awe and this feeling of _I’m so in love with you_ that manifests as this physical _ache_ in her chest, and when Karma lets the last note fade out into enthusiastic applause from the crowd, Amy’s face hurts from matching Karma’s grin and her hands sting from clapping.

Karma makes a beeline for her after getting off the stage, still absolutely _beaming_ and gorgeous. Amy leaps to her feet and can feel Karma shaking as she embraces her with one arm, the other holding tight to her precious bouquet.

“Oh my god, that was terrifying,” Karma says into her ear, just like she always does after singing in front of other people, and Amy can’t help but laugh.

“You were _amazing_ ,” she says, squeezing Karma tightly and _god,_ it’s still hard to breathe _._

Karma sighs. “Thanks.” She doesn’t have to say anything else for Amy to know she means thanks for more than just the compliment, but she pulls back and kisses Amy to drive home the point anyway.

If the performance was Karma’s big moment of the night, then the moment that belongs to Amy is the one right after she breaks the kiss and finally pulls the flowers from behind her back.

“Here,” she says, offering Karma a dozen orange roses with her heart pounding against her ribcage. “Surprise.”

It’s stupid to be so nervous about something so trivial, but Amy tried _so hard_ to get this right, to make this something special and new. It took her _days_ to pick out the right flower, because roses had seemed like such a cliché and the absolute last thing she wanted was for Karma to not bat an eyelash at whatever Amy got for her; then, once she discovered orange roses in particular were literally perfect for what she wanted to say, it was a huge pain in the ass to order them, because the flower shop didn’t normally carry them and had to special order them just to be able to sell them to her. And on top of that, she’s so worried that Karma won’t get it or she was wrong or something and the whole thing was just a big waste of time.

About a second after realization sets in for Karma, though, Amy kicks herself for ever doubting her. Just by the look Karma gives her, something fierce and full of wonder, and the almost reverent way she takes the roses from Amy’s hands, Amy can tell she understands everything – all the trouble she went to and, most importantly, what she means.

Amy’s pretty sure she still has the results of a Skwerkel search, “orange rose meaning”, bookmarked on her laptop: _A bridge between friendship and romantic love. An expression of fascination. A way to say, “I’m proud of you.”_

Ever since the idea cropped up, she’s been hung up on that first point – how she and Karma still have Netflix marathons like they did when they were fourteen, before the whole faking it thing set the crazy train in motion; how they still fix each other’s hair before dates, even though they’re with each other; how they can still order for each other at restaurants, like they’ve been doing for the last decade, at least.

In high school, when they became a couple for real, Amy remembers thinking that nothing _really_ changed except that they started making out. They’d always said, “I love you”; now it just meant something more.

And Karma gets it. She gets all of it. And they don’t even have to say a word.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Amy didn’t _try_ to do it with words.

“Oh – there’s this, too.” She pulls the card from her back pocket and holds it out.

Karma kind of laughs a little and accepts it, but she doesn’t open it. She just glances from it to the roses, the color of the glowing embers of a fire in its last breaths, shaking her head in disbelief, and _looks_ at Amy with these bright, bright eyes, and kisses her again, and that pretty much says it all.


	10. bowl

Neither of them are very good at bowling. Well – that’s being kind, really. A more accurate statement might be that they’re both total _shit_ at bowling and it’s lucky they hit any of the pins at all.

At least, that’s how the night starts out. That’s the excuse Amy tries to use when Karma hands her a pair of tacky red and blue bowling shoes in exactly the right size, but they already drove all the way here and Amy’s smiling in spite of herself even as she protests, so Karma has none of it. Besides, it’s their first time going out together – like, _together_ together, Karma still has to mark the distinction in her mind – outside of dinner and a movie and Amy could literally throw every ball into the gutter and Karma wouldn’t care. Like, honestly, Amy should know better by now.

Their first game is… _rough_ would be the kind word. More of the balls end up on the side of the lane than knocking anything over; once, when Karma steps up to take her turn, the shoes make her slip and lose her balance and she almost falls flat on her face, which would just be great, really, not mortifying at all. She’s not sure when she started caring so much about making a fool of herself in front of Amy, because that’s basically the foundation of their entire friendship, but her face still feels hot as she regains herself just in time to see her ball topple a single pin and merely send another wobbling. _Smooth move, Karma._

Combined, their scores at the end of the first game add up to less than fifty. Karma pulls out a win, but only by the skin of her teeth.

Determination settles on Amy’s face. “Rematch.”

Karma smirks. “Bring it on.”

The next ten frames are a relatively big improvement: Between them, they manage one whole spare, and Karma _doesn’t_ let the dumb shoes get the better of her, and neither does Amy, which is a step up in itself.

Amy wins round two. Karma narrows her eyes at the scoreboard.

“We can do better.”

Game three isn’t much different from game two. They’re more or less neck and neck the whole time, constantly trash talking each other – _until_ – Amy inhales, holds her breath, swings her arm back, forward, lets the ball fly – it lands with a heavy _BOOM_ , and –

 It’s like the stars and planets align or the gods of bowling are smiling down on them or something, because it must be a _miracle_ the way the ball hooks and makes solid contact with the pins, just off center; almost in slow motion, all ten of them fall down, defeated in one fell swoop.

Karma’s competitive streak is the last thing on her mind as she jumps to her feet, cheering so loud she’d probably look crazy if there was anyone else here to judge them on a Tuesday night. Amy spins around with her arms in the air, and before Karma has the chance to get out anything more than “Oh my _god!”_ she’s feeling Amy’s wide smile against her mouth.

Even though they’ve already kissed more times than Karma can count (despite her best efforts to keep track), it still takes her breath away, still makes her forget her name and where she is and the stupid colorful shoes on her feet and the two frames they still have left to bowl – all that exists is Amy and one hand sure and firm on the back of Karma’s neck and the intoxicating, all-encompassing feel of her.

Karma settles her hands on Amy’s waist and gives in to the forgetting, gives herself over to the task of memorizing the shape of Amy’s lips, and how they stop curling at the edges as Karma curls her fingers into the hem of Amy’s shirt, pulling her impossibly closer, and closer.


End file.
